


The white hills whence we fell

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb gives in. </p><p>Written for the gameofships community on LJ's "Tag, your ship" round. </p><p>Based on the prompt:  "Humanity seems to be divided into two categories. People trying to be good and people trying to be bad, but personally I don't see so much difference.  If you spend your whole life as a saint, eventually you will crave the opposite and the filth will appear as an oasis in the desert but if you spend your life in the gutter, sooner or later you will be searching for wisdom."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The white hills whence we fell

It was just as well when things began to crumble. The crown was a great burden, and heavy on a young lord’s head, perhaps too ponderous a weight to bear when Robb considered what he had lost. His sisters, one captive and the other vanished, and his mother’s weary grief at such that accused him in its own silent way, were probably the worst of all. Although Catelyn was now silent on the matter, the lines etched on her face and her red-rimmed eyes were worse than a thousand accusers. 

It was worst when she consoled him. His mother, meaning well, compared him to Ned. Ned had erred; Ned was a man, just as Robb. Flesh, not a god of smoke or marble. It had taken all of his restraint not to cry out when she soothed him in those secret moments, all too few, when he was not held captive in council, or needed on the field. But one night, he broke, sending her from the tent, the memory of Jeyne and the stain that covered them both, despite his attempts to make it right, too sharp in his mind. 

He whispered to himself, “I am not him. I am nothing like him.”

But what he wanted to say was “I am no longer pure. I am no longer good. And I no longer want to be.” 

And so he listened to the hard men and their harder words. He thought that it might make him one of them, or at least, give him their ability to simply live instead of agonizing over each tiny sin. It was a relief to sink into the mire, to relinquish. To take off the crown. 

So Roose Bolton whispered in his ear, what he called advice, but to Robb it was a seduction of sorts. It was easier to listen, to follow, to be led, even though he would not have called it such had he been asked. His father had always set store by a variety of opinions, from the great to the base, and Robb justified his reliance upon such ill words in this manner. But deep down, he knew that it was not the same. Deep down, he realized that he was sinking. And it no longer mattered.

“Your Grace would do well to put aside the girl,” Bolton said one night while Robb idly fingered a stray ribbon that Jeyne had granted him as her favor. Such an innocent and frivolous gesture, it seemed. “It was a youthful indiscretion, and it is far wiser to remember one’s promises in times of war.” He smiled thinly and Robb recalled how he had taken to bed a Frey girl himself. He wondered how such cold words and cruel glances sat with her and thought better of it. 

“There is a saying about politics and bedfellows,” Bolton continued, his fingers brushing Robb’s and lingering a bit too long as he took the trifle and let it fall in the dirt. 

Robb’s face burned from the sensation of the other man’s fingers, and although he wanted nothing more than to pull back, to wipe his crawling skin on his clothing, he sat stock-still, his face hard, eyes anywhere but Bolton’s face. 

“But there is honor as well.” Robb’s voice came out childish, almost whining, and he winced. He no longer believed in such things. It was all well and good to play at paper knights but when he’d seen men die, had caused men to die on the field, chivalry and duty withered away. 

“Your Grace,” Bolton whispered, his hand heavy on Robb’s shoulder, “you cannot afford honor.” He smiled coldly. “Not even a king’s hands are clean.” And he clasped Robb’s fingers so tightly that bone grated on bone, and Robb dared not look away this time.


End file.
